The Obsidian Pavilion sat on a jagged outcrop of black rock, its glass walls overlooking a sea that hit the cliffs in rhythmic, white bursts.

Inside, the air was a thick mixture of expensive tobacco, roasted meat, and the electric hum of three high-ranking bloodlines occupying the same space. 

Lyra sat at the center. She wore a gown of midnight-blue silk that reached her throat, the fabric shifting like water when she moved. A single silver pendant rested in the hollow of her collarbone.

To her right, Lucien Vane sat in a charcoal suit, his fingers toyed with the stem of a wine glass.

To her left, Cassian Ashveil occupied a straight-backed chair. He wore a plain black tunic, the sleeves rolled back to reveal the red, horizontal scars on his forearms.

Lucien leaned toward Lyra, his chest inches from her shoulder. He did not look at Cassian.

"The vintage is from the year of the Great Thaw," Lucien said, his voice a smooth, melodic baritone. "It has a clarity that the northern brews lack. They tend to taste of iron and old smoke."

Cassian kept his gaze on the white tablecloth. His storm-gray eyes were bloodshot, the skin beneath them dark. He did not reach for his wine. He sat with his hands flat on the wood, his knuckles turning white.

"We are here to coordinate troop movements," Cassian said. His voice was a dry rasp. "Darius has three hundred rogues at the eastern pass. My scouts have seen the markings on the trees. They're using poisoned iron."

Lucien laughed. It was a soft sound that didn't reach his eyes. "Darius is a scavenger. He moves because he senses a carcass. He doesn't realize the South is a fortress."

Lucien turned his head toward Lyra, his voice dropping to an intimate register. "Remember the maps we studied last night, Lyra?"

Lyra did not look at Cassian. She picked up her fork. "The maps showed a weakness at the ridge. We marked it in silver ink."

Cassian's breathing grew heavy.

He looked at Lucien's hand on Lyra's chair. He looked at the way Lyra's hair spilled over her shoulder, inches from Lucien's fingers. The scent of sandalwood and cold ozone from Lucien was tangled with the jasmine and silver of Lyra.

"She used to hate the library at night," Cassian said. He looked at Lyra's profile. "She said the shadows were too long."

"Perhaps she simply needed the right company," Lucien replied.

A large platter was placed in the center of the table. A thick steak sat on a bed of rosemary and thyme, steam rising into the cold air. Beside it lay a single, heavy steak knife with a bone handle and a silver blade.

Both Alphas reached for the hilt at the same time.

Lucien's long, elegant fingers gripped the bone first. Cassian's broad, scarred hand slammed down over the top of Lucien's.

The air in the pavilion snapped. The candles on the table flickered and died, leaving the room in shadows. Neither man moved. Their hands were locked over the steel blade, the tension vibrating through the mahogany until the wine glasses rattled.

Lucien's blue eyes turned a crystalline silver. Cassian's gray eyes swirled with a dark, turbulent light.

"I'll carve," Cassian hissed.

"You've carved enough, Ashveil," Lucien replied. His voice was a lethal whisper.

Lucien did not pull his hand away. He pushed the knife down, the blade biting into the wood of the table. Cassian's grip tightened, his fingernails digging into the back of Lucien's hand. 

Lyra picked up her own bread knife. She sliced into the crust of a roll. The sound of the crust breaking was the only noise in the room.

"The meat is getting cold," Lyra said.

Her voice was steady and chime-like. She did not look at the hands locked on the knife. She did not look at the silver eyes of the men flanking her.

Cassian was the first to let go. He pulled his hand back as if he had been burned. He tucked his arm under the table, hiding the tremor in his fingers. He looked at the white tablecloth, his shoulders hunching.

Lucien picked up the knife. He carved a perfect slice of meat and placed it on Lyra's plate.

"For you," Lucien said.

He looked at Cassian. "The North is a cold place to return to, Ashveil. I suggest you remember that before you reach for something that isn't yours."

Cassian did not respond. He sat in the silence, a man of ash and bone, watching the woman he had lost eat a meal he had not provided.

"Darius will attack the western flank first," Lyra said, her voice cutting through the tension. "He thinks the coast is a blind spot."

"Then we set the trap there," Lucien said. He leaned back in his chair, his hand moving from the table to rest on the arm of Lyra's seat. "Cassian can provide the scouts for the initial lure. They're used to the dirt."

Cassian looked at Lyra. He noted the way she didn't flinch when Lucien's arm brushed hers. He noted the silver in her eyes, which was bright and constant.

"I'll lead the scouts myself," Cassian said.

"A king in the mud," Lucien mused. "How traditional."

"I'm not a king here," Cassian said. He looked at Lyra's hands. "I'm a normal friend."

The dinner continued in a state of sharp, contained hostility.

Lucien spoke of southern poetry and the expansion of the sea-trade, his wit a polished blade.

Cassian remained quiet, answering only when the logistics of the coming battle were mentioned.

When the meal was finished, Lucien stood and offered his hand to Lyra. She took it. Lucien's fingers laced through hers, his silver rings pressing against her skin.

"The guest house has fresh linens. Try to sleep, Ashveil. You look like you're haunted," Lucien said to Cassian.

Lucien led Lyra out of the pavilion. Their shadows merged on the stone floor as they walked toward the main manor.

Cassian remained at the table. He looked at the spot where their hands had been locked on the knife. He reached out and touched the scar the blade had left in the mahogany.

He stayed there until the candles were replaced and the moon was high over the sea.